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alive?” Caleb asked. “You must think I possess something of value.”
    “You must love your brother a great deal to risk this.”
    “If I give you proof that makes the archive matter meaningless,” Caleb said, “let him live.”
    Helius stared at Caleb.
    “Yes,” Caleb said, “I can prove for you that Jesus of Nazareth—whom the Christians call Christos—was not divine.”

    The naked baby had been placed on the cold stone pavement directly beneath the statue of Nero at the temple in Smyrna. Vitas knelt in front of it and in the moonlight saw that it was a baby girl.
    Vitas was filled with confusion.
    What was he doing here? The father who had decided to leave the baby exposed was doing nothing wrong in the eyes of Roman law. Vitas had seen the bodies of dozens of exposed babies left in public places and had well been able to ignore their fading cries.
    What was he doing here? It was against centuries of tradition to do anything but ignore the dying baby. And how could he save the tiny girl, even if he picked her up this very moment?
    The baby’s cries ripped at his heart.
    What was he doing here? In Rome, he’d managed to spend four years in a cocoon, wrapped in the luxuries of wealth, determined not to step outside into a world filled with these tragedies. As a member of Nero’s inner court, he’d taken great effort to remain a decision maker, to avoid involvement in implementing any of the plans that sent men or women to their deaths.
    What was he doing here in front of this baby? Why did he care?
    An image sprang to his mind: a young Jew named Nathan, taken by arresting soldiers from a small Jewish household and hauled in front of the defacto triumvirate of Helius and Tigellinus and Vitas, the three men who formed the power base that served Nero. This young Jew had been utterly unafraid of the prodding spears of the soldiers and the harsh questions from Helius and Tigellinus. But the intended interrogation of the boy had become almost like a conversation between peers, almost to the point where Vitas had felt like a student at a master’s feet, trying to understand where the young man could draw such strength and peace in front of the terrifying power of Rome. Strength and peace. Two things Vitas wanted to possess.
    What was he doing here on the pavement, kneeling in front of the weakening baby?
    Since the day of the arrest of that boy named Nathan, Vitas had been unable to escape the questions Nathan had posed. Questions about soul and purpose of life. Questions about a man named Jesus, crucified by Pontius Pilate during his clumsy attempts to govern Judea.
    Vitas wanted his life in compartments, for compartments sealed away pain. Yet since arresting Nathan, Vitas had become too aware of the suffering of others. He was irritated at that growing weakness and irritated that the dreams he’d almost escaped since returning to Rome had recently begun to haunt him again.
    What was he doing here?
    If he took the baby, he breached law. And most certainly betrayed a long-standing tradition of the empire.
    If he didn’t take the baby, she would surely die within the hour.
    If he took the baby, what of all the other children in this world who suffered? Titus had been right. The task was overwhelming.
    Yet if he stood and left the baby where she was still wailing, would her cries join the other wails of his dreams?
    Vitas sighed. He had enough money. Perhaps . . .
    Vitas took the baby into his arms, trying to warm the trembling little girl. He would wrestle with what to do as he held her. That was his decision for now. The baby quieted briefly.
    Footsteps alerted him to the presence of someone approaching from behind. “What do you think you are doing?” The demand came from a woman’s voice.
    Vitas rose awkwardly, still holding the baby. She began to wail again.
    He turned.
    “I . . . I . . .” Vitas could not answer, for that, of course, had been the same question he’d been struggling with since